


Forever

by sageness



Series: Dreaming the Mythic Age [1]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Canon - TV, F/M, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-16
Updated: 2004-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel, Lillian, Morgan & Pamela...years before the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nifra &amp; Michelle for their beta work.

METROPOLIS. SEPTEMBER, 1959

Cards flicked onto the mattress. Ed Sullivan brayed a reminder to tune in tomorrow from the television in the next room. Morgan's mother was passed out on the sofa, bottle lying forlorn and empty on the thin rug, snoring away like a freight train. It was a comfort. At home, Lionel knew his own parents were having another fight of the century, since his father had bet all the cash he hadn't drunk this week on tonight's big prize fight. He'd lost it all.

His mother had flipped her lid. Now she was going to have to ask for more shifts mopping floors at Woolworth's and Sears &amp; Roebuck. She'd had a fine job cleaning at Bloomingdale's until they'd caught her pinching a pair of earrings, and Lionel suspected that she was less upset at being caught than she was at having been held up as a warning to the store's other, mostly Negro, cleaning women. She'd downed two weeks of gin to drown the public humiliation, two weeks when Lauchlan had made himself conspicuously absent from their tiny kitchenette apartment and Lionel was left to mooch from Mrs. Edge. Or fend for himself.

"Your turn," Morgan said, kicking his arm. Morgan was sitting on the bed, back against the wall beside the window. He had one foot hitched up and the other leg splayed wide. Lionel lay propped up on his elbows in line with the window. Idly he discarded and drew, not paying much attention to the game. There were sirens in the distance. They rarely made it all the way into the slum, as long as the gangs paid their fealty. It wasn't lost on him how strange it was that all these towers full of people were basically self-policing, living in fear of the next syndicate war.

"Gin," Morgan announced, and Lionel nodded vaguely. "Hey, where are you?"

"Huh?"

Morgan nudged him in the ribs with his toe. "Daydreaming?"

"Just thinking about...out there," Lionel said, pointing vaguely toward the street below.

"Oh?" Morgan swung around to face the window. "What do you see?"

"Deadbeats. Cranks. Pimps, whores, washed up bums. It's a garbage heap."

"It's called Suicide Slum for a reason, pal."

Gunshots sounded from a few blocks over, and Lionel snorted. "See what I mean?"

"We'll get out someday," Morgan said with an optimistic kick to Lionel's side. "We'll save our money and never look back."

"Don't give me that Pollyanna crap, Morgan. We'll never make that kind of dough."

He grunted noncommittally and pulled the blinds up higher. The window was already open to the still night air. "Let's play the grid. Get the light?"

"Okay," Lionel answered indifferently, but he stretched obediently down to the floor to flick off the bedside lamp. After a quick scan across the narrow street, he said, "H-14."

Morgan looked. "Nowheres-ville, just like always."

Lionel rolled his eyes. "You can do better than that."

"Okay, so he gets home from the boring old job at the post office, where he sorts mail and marks through stamps all day," Morgan answered, making a show of exasperation "He scorches a TV dinner. He burns his fingers on the foil. He watches the evening news. He watches _Lucy_ and wonders how that Cuban rat could score a piece like her." Lionel snickered in appreciation. "Then he wanks off and goes to bed."

"What, you've watched him?" An image flashed into Lionel's mind of Morgan sitting here at the window, spying on the mailman with his hand in his pants. Both of them with their hands...no. Lionel banished the thought with a frown.

Suppressing a laugh, Morgan raised his eyebrows and teased him, "Maybe, maybe not. B-6, go."

Grumbling, Lionel got up on his knees and bent out over the window ledge, cursing, as usual, the absence of a fire escape. They were up on the twentieth floor, and looking down, all the way over to the left, and _not_ falling out the window was an unsettling thrill. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"Tell me something I don't know." As Lionel counted windows over and down, Morgan stirred, pulling the wrinkles out of the coverlet. Lionel shivered slightly as he felt Morgan's eyes trace the narrow line of his back.

"It's dark. Pick another."

"Uh-uh. You know the rules. _Why_ is it dark?"

"Well...isn't B-6 a girl who works in an office somewhere? It's a weeknight, so she's probably not out of town. Maybe she's on a date."

"Maybe."

Lionel leaned out a little further, resting his elbows on the brick ledge beyond the sill. "Well, what do you know...."

"What?"

"She's on her stoop right now. Or someone who looks like her—hard to tell at this distance. Someone's kissing her goodnight."

"Let me see," Morgan said, shouldering Lionel aside. He gave the lovebirds a cursory glance, enough to see that the kiss was chaste, and the man had failed to get invited in. "That's boring."

"L-19," Lionel said in a strained voice.

Morgan's eyes shot up to a window almost directly across the way. He chuckled softly.

"They're..."

"Yep," Morgan said, a little too quickly.

"Shit, you knew!"

"From the beginning."

"Bastard."

He laughed again and settled in for the show. "I just know where to look."

Lionel nodded absently and shifted his feet under him. One hand was skating slowly down to adjust himself, while the other reflexively gripped and released the windowsill. They were silent for several minutes, watching side by side in the dark. Finally, Lionel found the words to ask, "What did I miss? What were they doing before?"

Morgan answered quietly, "Necking, then he took his shirt off. And then he helped get her out of her dress and slip. Then she undid his belt and pants. And he took off her brassiere and—"

"She's still wearing her stockings."

"Yes," Morgan whispered, eyes fastened on the couple fucking thirty feet away. The man had her from behind, pounding into her while sweat trickled down their skin. There was no tenderness, only the urgency of need. Morgan cupped his palm over his erection and listened to Lionel's breathing speed up, become ragged.

"God," Lionel murmured, now openly rubbing the front of his trousers. "Look, they're...."

They watched the man straighten, pulling at her hips to speed up the rhythm. Her breasts were bouncing on the downbeats, her hair was falling free of its pins. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open, moaning now, right out the window, they could hear it. The man wrapped one hand low under her belly and drove in deep, while the other covered her mouth to muffle her screams. Faster then, faster, and a half-dozen thrusts more, then they collapsed together on the—

"Aw jeez, they're on the kitchen table," Morgan breathed, with almost a laugh.

Lionel shuddered with the realization and squeezed himself hard through the fabric.

"Come here," Morgan said, pulling at Lionel's arm above the elbow.

"Huh?"

"Before they look up and see they've got an audience."

"Oh."

A heavy gibbous moon was rising through the canyon of skyscrapers, providing a bit of ambient light. Lionel couldn't hide that he was trembling.

Morgan grinned and pulled him up towards the head of the bed, away from the gaping window.

"So, how much did I miss while I was on B-6?" Lionel tried to make it a joke.

Morgan looked at him seriously. "You were about to jerk off in my bed."

Lionel swallowed nervously. He and Morgan had snuck into nudie shows before, but that was dark and anonymous. This was...well, Morgan was right. This was his _bed_. "I better go," Lionel muttered, struggling for a semblance of his tough guy face.

"And what, you _want_ to get knifed? Your old man'll kill you if you bust in on them tonight."

"I could go somewhere else...." he trailed off, knowing it was a lost cause. Morgan hadn't let go of his arm, was clutching the muscle in a death grip, and he had that fiery look on his face, like when a really tight skirt strolled by, slow and close, like she was just begging for it.

The blue eyes flashed. "You want to know what they were doing before they started fucking?"

"Morgan—" The rest of his protest was cut off by the kiss, his tongue slipping into his mouth, hot, wet, and demanding. Lionel had kissed plenty of girls. He'd even been with a few, though not as many as he claimed. Girls were soft and pliable, all smooth skin and cloying perfume.

They were nothing like this.

They pulled apart, Morgan holding his face in his hands. Lionel had to scoot his knees forward to keep from overbalancing. Forward, right into—_him_.

Morgan thrust against him, and Lionel shivered again. He still didn't have any words and Morgan knew it, was probably getting off on that, too, the bastard. Then they were kissing again, and there was a hand on his ass and another tugging his belt free.

"But..." Lionel had his hands on Morgan's chest, pushing him off, even as they were both thrusting into each other. He had to stop that. "This is crazy."

"Crazy good or crazy bad?" Morgan asked, smirking, raking a hand up his back.

Lionel stared at him. "Since when do you—"

Morgan reached down between Lionel's legs, taking his balls gently in hand through this trousers. "You were going to jerk yourself off _in my bed_, and you've never thought about this?"

"I—you.... You just surprised me is all." Except that wasn't even close to the whole story. His mouth opened and shut helplessly.

Morgan laughed outright this time. "I've surprised Lionel Luthor? Well, I guess now I can die happy."

"Mor—" he started, the syllable lost to another deep, insistent kiss and a not-unpleasant squeeze to his tender parts. And then he was just moaning, writhing as Morgan pulled him down to bite and suck at his throat. Fingers scrabbled at his shirt buttons, and maybe, maybe—

"You want this. I know you do. Stop fighting it," Morgan said with another thrust.

"I'm not some pansy, god damn it!" he said, the words flying free at last, except they didn't come out angry. They were soft, desperate sounding, and God, maybe he did, maybe he really did.

"Oh, and I am?" Morgan answered, practically glowing with amusement.

Lionel searched his face. Could be this was merely another game to him, another conquest? If that's what it was, then there was only one way to win.

Lionel lunged up for another kiss, cock pressing hard into Morgan's belly. The straining cloth was getting painful.

"What else were they doing?" Lionel whispered into his mouth.

"What?" Morgan asked, fighting with the last of his shirt buttons.

"L-19. Before," he said, thrusting upwards.

"Mmm." Morgan's hungry look fell away for a moment, gentling into a real smile. "I'll show you." Then his hands were busy at Lionel's waist, tugging his pants and boxers off and pushing him flat on his back in a single swift motion.

"You—"

"Mm-hmm," he said, and slid Lionel's cock into his mouth.

Lionel didn't last long, and when he came, he was bucking wildly enough to choke; but at some point he looked down and realized that the sight of Morgan sucking his dick was far and away the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.

Then he realized, after sucking his jizz off Morgan's tongue, that the look on Morgan's face at _that_ moment was, possibly, even better. And that was all he needed. If it was a game, Lionel would win, and if it wasn't—well, he'd think about that later.

Morgan was naked now, too, arching back on the bed and biting his wrist to keep from howling. Lionel tasted him, mouth everywhere, savoring him from his broad chest, down to his navel and then his cock, licking and sucking, as he tried to imitate the things his last girlfriend had done best. No teeth, a steady hand, increasing speed, and there—Lionel smiled inwardly, recognizing the warning in Morgan's tremble, right before he began to shoot. He tasted darker, saltier than what Lionel had drawn from his kiss, but now he was being pulled up roughly, before he was even done swallowing.

Morgan was lapping it from his tongue, and Lionel wasn't sure what to make of that, but it seemed sexy, if weird. But what was really weird _and_ sexy was the way Morgan was pushing into him, whole body undulating—completely entwined with his.

The look on Morgan's face right then was the most dazzling thing he'd seen in his life. It was pure bliss. Pure ecstatic certainty that this was better than anything, ever, and Lionel was pretty sure his own face bore the same expression.

They slept like that for a few hours, curled tightly together on the narrow bed. Lionel woke up to Morgan's fingers in his hair, stroking tenderly. Moonlight poured in through the window, painting them in silver monochrome. Morgan was beautiful, ethereal, yet sharp as a knife's blade. Lionel didn't know what to feel, wasn't even sure if this was real.

"I need to get home," he whispered.

"Yeah." Morgan nodded, winding his fingers tighter.

"What...." _What the hell do we do now_? Lionel asked with his eyes.

Morgan wrapped his arm around Lionel's bare shoulders. "Don't let your old man give you any hell, all right?"

Like he had any control over that. Lionel shrugged the arm away. "We'll see."

"Hey," Morgan said, and kissed him fiercely. Morgan's eyes shone, his hair gleaming almost white; the fine hairs on his chest left tiny shadows. He was resolute. "We're going to be fine. Trust me."

"Doesn't this change everything?"

"Nah. We look out for each other, right? Just like always."

"Right," Lionel answered, a trifle uncertainly.

"We just...."

"What?"

Morgan ran his hands down Lionel's body, grinning as his cock rose to fit in his palm. "L-19."

Lionel bent in for a kiss. He wanted Morgan to suck him off again, and he probably ought to be more shocked by that. Even more by how much he wanted to taste Morgan again, explore him, all the flat planes and sharp protrusions. To feel _that_ again, that thing that had happened after Morgan had come. After he'd made Morgan come. But there would be hell to pay if he weren't home when his parents got up...assuming they hadn't killed each other while he was out.

"I really do have to go," he said, pushing himself up to fumble in the dark for his clothes.

"Yeah, I know." Morgan reached out and grazed his fingernails down Lionel's back. "Come over later, okay?"

"Yeah," Lionel answered, voice hitching as Morgan's fingers slid below his waist, "uh, yeah."

* * *

LONG ISLAND. JUNE, 1967

Lillian sat on the beach with her sketchbook balanced on her knees. The page was covered in doodles of seagulls, children, sand castles, waves with sailboats in the middle distance. The Hamptons were hardly a real vacation, but her mother wasn't willing to travel far, nor to hand Lillian over to some friend's 'libertine' parents for the trip to Hawaii she'd longed for. So Lillian languished—self-consciously, terminally bored.

Eventually, she lost herself in a detailed portrait of a hermit crab, which naturally meant keeping several of them trapped on the blanket with her for careful observation. She was busy wrangling them into rows when someone walked up.

"I was afraid I was the only young person here," said the young man blocking her light. He squatted down and kidnapped one of her models for closer inspection. "I thought I was going to die surrounded by old ladies having tea."

Lillian laughed. She hadn't seen him in years, not since going to camp upstate years ago.

"Hi, Dickie. It's good to see you again."

"Richard, please," he said, a slight edge on his voice. "Sorry, it's good to see you, too. You look wonderful."

"Oh, so you go off to university, and now you change your name?" she teased.

He blushed hotly. "Don't you start, too. They," Dickie said, gesturing toward the weather beaten inn up the beach, "have been giving me hell for it all afternoon."

Lillian smiled. "It's only because you're the only boy here. It makes you easy to pick on."

"I suppose...." he said, and laid sprawling claim to half her blanket. "So, someone said you're at Dominican Academy."

She gave a little snort at the graceless segue. "That's right. I'll be a senior this fall."

"Are you thinking about college?"

"Please spare me any of that 'a woman's place is in the home' nonsense."

He laughed. "Just the opposite, actually. It's a different world now than what our parents grew up in."

"You can say that again. And my mother's about twenty years older than yours."

"Oh. That's true, isn't it?" He twiddled his thumbs and brushed absently at his sweater vest. "So, what schools are you looking at?"

"Smith. Wellesley. Mount Holyoke. Mostly Smith."

"Girls schools," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"DA's all-girls, too. Mother would flip if I went somewhere co-ed."

"Really? I thought she would be pushing for Notre Dame."

Lillian giggled. "No, I think she's more concerned with my virtue than my faith."

He blushed and gave her a shy half-smile. "But you know about the buses to the rest of the sister-schools, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she replied with a grin. "Listen, going to Catholic school doesn't mean I've grown up in an abbey. It _is_ New York, after all."

He grinned back, and they sat for a while, listening to the surf roll in in companionable silence. He watched as she rearranged her menagerie of hermit crabs again and added a few final strokes to her drawing. When she seemed satisfied with it, he slid his fingertips over her forearm. "So, there's a little place down past the pier that's great for watching the sun set. Wanna go?"

Smiling, she looked up and took his hand. "Sure."

* * *

METROPOLIS. APRIL, 1969

"I got your note," Lionel called, hanging his coat in the foyer. In the pocket was a slip of paper that read, "L-19. 6pm _sharp_."

Morgan's new penthouse was decorated in a curious mix of sedate moddish blacks and hippie day-glo. Lionel found it eternally disconcerting, despite having had plenty of time to get used to Morgan's particular blend of outré and understated.

Morgan appeared, dressed in a turtleneck and dark, expensive suit. "I have a surprise for you," he said, and pulled Lionel in for a long kiss.

"What kind of surprise?" Lionel asked, nipping at his ear. Usually L-19 meant long, hours of lovemaking and dinner in—occasionally eating it off of each other's bodies...something which always led to the best kind of bathroom playtime.

"Take a shower. You smell like the lab."

"You know," Lionel purred, "I could have done my dissertation research anywhere, but I wanted to be near you."

"Shower, babe. Now," Morgan said and gently shoved him back.

"So, what's the surprise?" Lionel's eyes darted around the apartment, then back to Morgan's face. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. There were no tell-tale candles, no rich aromas drifting out from the kitchen, not even a rose in the vase on the table.

"We're going out. I laid out a suit for you in the bedroom."

"Together?"

"Why yes, actually."

"But you— You mean in public?"

Morgan laughed indulgently and pushed him toward the bedroom. "Trust me."

Dinner was succulent, gourmet, and French. The show was the national touring production of _Cabaret_. The seats were front row center. And the girls were both discreet and delighted to pose as dates for the night. Morgan and Lionel had a wonderful time, each feeling triumphant at the success of the little ruse. When they got home, they fucked each other senseless and slept the night through curled in each other's arms.

* * *

MANHATTAN. FEBRUARY, 1972

"You look lovely, darling."

"Thanks, Mother." Lillian was wearing a high-necked, long velvet dress that would fit right in among tea-drinking matriarchs. She didn't roll her eyes at the compliment. Instead, she smiled sweetly, and placed a stack of new magazines on the nightstand. "How are you feeling?"

"The same," her mother answered with a dismissive flick of her hand. "And where is your escort?"

"I don't have one tonight."

"Lillian."

"Mother, at least three friends from school will be there. I don't need to drag some poor boy around with me all night."

"Which friends?"

Lillian pasted a smile on her face and reminded herself that she was not twelve, and her mother _did_ have a right to be concerned. "Pamela, Janine, and Eloise."

"You're sure."

"Positive. Besides, I _am_ of age."

"It still isn't proper for you to go alone."

"Mother, this is 1972. The world is changing. Nixon's in China, for heaven's sake!"

Narrowing her eyes, Lillian's mother sat up straighter against the pillows. "US foreign policy is hardly relevant to the company you keep, young lady. I don't know why you didn't marry that nice boy from Amherst while you had the chance."

Lillian pursed her lips and managed to bite back a decidedly unladylike retort. "I'm afraid I'm running late. Don't wait up." She bent to kiss her mother's cheek.

"I'll see you at _breakfast_."

"Yes, Mother."

* * *

Once in the car, she raised the privacy window and began sorting through the pair of shopping bags she'd brought with her. She pulled off her demure black dress, and changed into a pair of gabardine slacks and a fitted black blouse. She exchanged her pearls for a diamond pendant, and brushed her hair out of its chignon to fly in a wild, red nimbus around her head. Opening another bag, she switched her square-heeled boots for a pair of jeweled stiletto pumps. From her purse, she took out a compact and redid her makeup with violet on her eyes to bring out the blue, and a scarlet gloss on her lips that would be sure to scandalize her mother.

At last she was feeling like herself—she'd graduated from Smith in December; now it was February, and Lillian was dying of boredom. She didn't need to work and had very little interest in finding a job, although she was toying with the idea of investing in a gallery. Her art professors had always been kind, but the bohemian scene simply wasn't what it had been fifteen years ago, back when beat was synonymous with cool.

SoHo was so much callous grit, now. Every scrap of 60s hippie optimism had been scoured away by the war. Always the war, of course, and the long years of it had grown on everybody. They all had childhood friends who'd died, gone MIA, or come back so broken in mind and body that there was nothing to do but nod, smile, and flee as quickly as possible.

Central Park was passing on the left; they were nearly there, so she carefully checked her new outfit for lint and donned her new Bill Blass coat. It was a work of art in and of itself, and she hated to risk ruining anything that made her feel so beautiful. Even if it did trigger fights with her Marxist friends from school—not that this was even close to their scene. It was going to be another boring social event, where she should be seen looking fabulous, wealthy, and decidedly not man-hungry.

She wasn't opposed to marriage. In theory. She simply hadn't been impressed by any of the boys who'd made time with her over the years. Taking buses and trains to rendezvous at sister colleges, or spend a clandestine weekend at a party on the cape—it was romantic in a spoiled-rich sort of way. But she knew they were merely kids playing. It was not the sort of foundation upon which one built a life.

Not the kind of life she wanted to live, at any rate.

Her mother was perpetually scandalized. Lillian had resigned herself to it years ago, when she realized that, as the surprise only child of her parents' old age, nothing she did would fall in line with their expectations of her. Papa was more than ten years in the grave, and her mother probably wouldn't last much longer. Lillian could barely stand to be around her, and she felt no end of guilt over that, but the very air in the room seemed to be waiting for death—as if her mother was waiting for Lillian's father to come and take her home to God. She didn't know if it was a sin to pray for death, but Lillian did pray for mercy every single time she met her mother's hollow eyes.

The car arrived at the hotel and the society press descended on her like a cloud of gnats, leaving her alone only after realizing she was neither a movie star nor a professional socialite. That might change after her mother's death, when she would become sole heir to the family fortune, but there was hopefully time left before Lillian had to face that eventuality.

Lillian found her friends, who gave up delightfully shocked squeals of "Pants!" on first view; then she procured a martini, and secured their promises that they would spend not more than an hour here before heading on to a late dinner and then a disco.

* * *

She mingled a little, but mostly drank and chatted with her girlfriends. Occasionally she would agree to a dance with an awkward young man or someone who seemed to be a distant uncle or old family friend.

She was extraordinary. She was, of course, beautiful, but that was almost incidental. The way she carried herself was...electrifying.

Her hair was a cloud of flaming red above milky skin, a slim, athletic body, and blue eyes that were most startling for their observant irony. And, yes, the slacks. He estimated that the ensemble was more expensive than many of the dresses in the room, but she wasn't flaunting it. She was flying in the face of convention even while embracing it.

He needed to know her.

* * *

"Come with me to the Ladies," Pamela said, taking her arm. Lillian drained her glass and followed, wondering what was going on. Usually Pamela was a little more subtle than this.

"What is it?"

"That guy from Metropolis is asking about you."

"Who?"

"Tux, wavy brown hair, kind of thin. The one who's been talking with the little group from Dow Chemical."'

"And why am I supposed to care?"

Pamela's lips flattened into a straight line. "You're not."

"Sorry, that came out wrong."

"Honey, I know you don't consider yourself on the market, but it wouldn't hurt to have a little fun."

Lillian gave her a full-lipped pout. "Fun is why we're leaving for dinner and disco in twenty minutes. We'll go dancing, find some cute boys to make out with, give our numbers to some lucky devil or two, and go home."

"So you won't even meet him?"

"Will it make you happy if I do?" Lillian smiled teasingly and swept a finger across the tip of Pamela's nose.

Pamela laughed. "I'm not forcing him on you, sweetheart, but he doesn't seem like the typical eligible bachelor who comes to these things. I just thought he might have an interesting story."

Lillian raised her eyebrows. "Maybe. I guess meeting him couldn't hurt."

* * *

She stood out on the veranda and watched the fountain burble and flow. The place was screened in against the winter cold, and a few portable heaters were scattered among the pots of live plants in decorative containers. A couple was talking at a side table. Another pair were at the other end, kissing feverishly against a giant stone urn planted with an unhappy-looking juniper. Lillian decided that in another five minutes, her obligation to Society would be over.

Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to her. "Impressive," he said, predictably dripping with charm.

"What is?"

He gestured around them.

"You mean the Plaza?" she asked skeptically.

"I take it you disagree."

"It's a hotel," she said with a dismissive shrug.

Lionel laughed, and in his hazel eyes she saw something interesting—a glimmer of shrewdness entirely misplaced at this farcical gathering of the rich and boring.

"It's charming and historical...but it's a mistake to come here thinking you'll meet Walter Matthau...although Neil Simon might be lurking down in the bar."

"So, you're not an _Odd Couple_ fan."

"I never said that." Lillian laughed, noticing that he had a rather beautiful smile. Yes, Pamela was right; this one was interesting. Might turn out to be very interesting.

Lionel offered his hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"All right," she said, and his touch sent a wave of sparks through her down to her toes.

Stepping inside to the ballroom, she saw the girls waiting. They could wait a little longer.

* * *

"So, you grew up in New York, survived years at the hands of fierce, ruler-wielding nuns, and then what?" Lionel asked her with a smile, neatly drowning his forkful of lobster in the dish of butter sauce.

"College." She let her eyes fall shut for a moment as the morsel of sea bass melted on her tongue. She smiled. "I went to Smith, majored in Art History, minored in Classics, graduated three months ago, and here I am."

"But you're not working."

"No." Lillian hesitated for a moment. "I suppose I could make all sorts of excuses, but I don't have any. Mother's still appalled that I didn't get an MRS degree and start cranking out babies."

"Girls still do that?"

She smiled coolly. "A lot of my friends did. After all, in most places you can't even rent an apartment with a guy unless you're married. Not any place worth living, at any rate."

"You're averse to marriage?"

"Not at all. I'm averse to men cozying up to me when what they really have eyes for is the family stock portfolio."

"I suppose that would put a damper on dating."

Lillian laughed cheerlessly. "It ties a knot in my ability to take people at face value."

"Do you take me at face value?"

"Lionel, I've found it safer to presume that everyone has an ulterior motive."

"What about your friends from school?"

"That's different. I have history with them. And they know better than to ask me for large sums of money."

He nodded, leaning forward and steepling his fingers together above his plate. "Let me tell you something. I've spent years at Yale and Princeton because I'm determined to build myself the kind of life my parents only dreamed of. I have a long list of goals that I won't bore you with, but I want you to know that I asked you out because I find _you_ fascinating. I don't care about the rest of it."

"But the rest of it, as you say, is part of who I am," she replied with a graceful wave of her hand.

"But your life is what you make it, Lillian, not what your family fortune dictates."

A tiny, ironic smirk played at the corner of her mouth. "You make that sound so easy."

"It's not, believe me. I'd just like to get to know you without all the societal preconceptions getting in the way."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, I like you. And I'm fairly sure that even if you were penniless, I'd still like you." He gave her a little wink.

"Strangely, that's almost romantic," Lillian said with a smile.

"Almost?"

She giggled.

"Next time I'll bring roses."

* * *

METROPOLIS. MAY, 1972

"You _what_!" Morgan bolted off the couch toward him.

Lionel leaned against the plate glass window. "Morgan, calm down."

"I won't calm down. You said it was only a short term move!"

"Morgan."

He stopped a few feet away from Lionel and perched on the edge of the boxy black armchair. "I want an explanation."

"I'm sorry."

"Not good enough."

Lionel looked at him mutely. There wasn't anything left to win here, nor any good way to do this. All the games were over, and Lionel had to get out. "You didn't really think we were forever, did you? After all the girls we've gone through over the years? I thought it was understood that someday we would grow up, get married, and have families."

Morgan didn't say anything. He just stared at him with eyes blazing with one part disbelief, three parts dawning rage.

"Faggots don't make the Fortune 500!" Lionel snarled in frustration.

"You sorry, selfish son of a bitch." Morgan crossed the room and poured himself a shot. "Fine," he growled at the encroaching silence.

"I thought we'd talked through this," Lionel said with quiet obstinance.

Morgan tossed back the drink and poured another. "No, _you_ talked. I never agreed."

"You really think no one would notice the bachelor-for-life thing?" Lionel laughed derisively. "You have to be kidding."

"It works well enough for Rock Hudson."

"Everyone knows he's a baggy old queen."

"No they don't. Most people think he's just an eccentric former pretty-boy."

"You want us to be eccentric."

"We already are."

"No. We're not," Lionel said, pacing the edge of the rug to the piano and back. "I won't settle for that."

Morgan slammed the glass down and crossed the room to him. "You don't need to own the entire world, Lionel!"

"And you don't need to settle for the goddamned racketeering business!"

"What, is that it? Is it because I don't give a damn about polite fucking society?"

"No," Lionel replied quietly.

"Then _what_?" Morgan asked as he sank into the couch, voice bordering on desperation.

"Look, you think this is easy on me?" Lionel stopped pacing, turned to face him. "You're the one constant in my life."

"Then why are you throwing me away?"

"I'm not. Don't put it like that."

Silence fell and a long look passed between them. "You've met someone, haven't you?"

"Morgan."

"For God's sake, lie about anything else, but don't lie about this."

"I...don't know yet."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I don't know yet! Give it a rest."

Morgan strode across to him, glaring. "What's her name?"

"Morgan, please." Lionel's hands rose and fell, grasping on air.

"If you're trading me in," Morgan snarled, pounding a thick finger against his sternum, "you better fucking tell me her name."

"Please don't do this," Lionel said softly. Morgan snorted and stormed away. "You know I've been fighting for their respect for years. It's my big chance."

"Your _big chance_?" A sculpted chunk of pottery crashed into thousands of pieces against the near wall, and Lionel found himself drifting subtly backwards, unable to hold his ground. "Fine! But when you fuck things up and she leaves you, don't you knock on _my_ door. You get me?"

"Morgan...."

"It's time for you to leave." Morgan grabbed Lionel's coat from the chair and hurled it at him.

"God, I'm so sorry," Lionel said, with pleading eyes.

Morgan blinked back tears and herded Lionel to the penthouse's vestibule. "Goodbye," he said.

"It's Lillian," Lionel choked. "Her name's Lillian."

Morgan's fist caught him square in the jaw, and Lionel crumpled against the door. He might have fallen, but Morgan held him up by the front of his shirt.

He tasted blood on his tongue, mouth cut from the punch. Morgan was on him, shoving him hard into the door, hard enough to bruise his shoulder blades, the back of his head. Morgan was kissing him now. No, was sucking his tongue, was sucking the leaking blood from the tip and bruising him with his fingertips.

It hurt like a bitch, and this time, Lionel knew he deserved it.

And then the door was opening and he was shoved through it with a strangled, "Go to hell." And for the first time in nearly fifteen years, Lionel was truly free.

* * *

MANHATTAN. AUGUST, 1972

"You are a firebrand, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry?" Lillian replied, gliding back to her bed from the bathroom.

Lionel softened his wolfish gaze, the glint in his eye acknowledging that she'd caught him. "It's even in the way you move. Your independence is...refreshing."

"You called me a firebrand. My father used to call me that when I was a little girl."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...."

"No, it's all right," she said, crawling up the bed to curl up next to him. "Papa was...we used to spend the summers in the Adirondacks when I was very small. The other kids and I, we would race through the woods, and then barrel down the slope, right off the pier, and cannonball into the lake." She laughed softly, remembering. "He said he could always find me by my hair."

"I can picture it."

"He died when I was ten."

"I wish I could have met him."

She smiled wistfully. "I wish I could have known him as an adult."

"Yes, I understand what you mean. I lost my parents as a teenager."

"Oh, I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

Lionel shrugged. "What I regret is being so caught up in teenage rebellion that I couldn't appreciate them for who they were."

"Yes, I can imagine."

There was a long silence before Lionel kissed her gently. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"My mother's dying." Pressing closer to him, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin.

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's all right. She's been ill for a long time, but she's finally...." Lillian drifted off, looking up at him.

"I understand."

"My life is going to change completely," she said, pausing for another kiss. "The papers love a good tragedy."

"And a beautiful, tragic heroine left all alone." His fingers twined in her hair, and he kissed her again, light touches of his lips over her face, ears, neck.

She pulled their bodies together. "They're like hyenas, waiting for me to trip and fall on my face. I'm sure they already have stacks of _Little Orphan Annie_ jokes on stand-by."

"I won't let you fall," Lionel said, nuzzling her neck.

She pulled away enough to make eye contact. "I appreciate the gesture, Lionel, but—"

"I want to help you." He said it simply, readily, with nothing in his face except truth.

"You really do, don't you?"

"You're in a difficult situation. And believe it or not, this isn't all about this," he said, sliding his fingers down her belly to nestle between her legs.

"But that certainly helps."

Lionel dipped his middle finger in, stroking gently. "You're a lovely girl. You're beautiful, smart, about to become extremely wealthy...." He moved down between her legs and placed a soft kiss in the curls. "_And_," he said, darting his tongue over the firm nub of flesh budding above his working finger, "you're going to be a target. I want to be here for you."

He pushed another finger in and clamped his mouth down, sucking and pulling as he built the rhythm. Lillian was thrusting against him, hips swiveling into his fingers, moaning softly for more, more. Lionel gave it, tongue drawing rapid circles, flicking against her with a bare hint of teeth.

Shifting the curve his fingers, Lionel moved faster, focusing on the little node inside that made her buck her hips off the bed, made him pin her hips down as he refastened his lips against her. And then, there, she was coming, arms flailing, words failing her as her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

For a few moments, he watched her lie motionless, shaken, and impossibly more lovely than before. Then Lillian pulled him up into her arms for a long, rough kiss. "You're amazing," she purred.

"So are you."

She kissed him again, this time wrapping her legs around him, levering her hips so that Lionel drove deep inside her.

"Lily," he whispered, trembling as the hot wet took him. She rocked up and back, setting the pace, and, just maybe, reminding him that _she_ was in control of this, no matter which of them was on top.

Afterwards, they lay cradled together, caressing each other gently. The afternoon light poured in through the sheer curtains and lay warm across their skin.

"We're both...experienced. We're both...." Her words faltering, she started over, lightly drawing patterns his face with her fingertips. "This feels really good. All these months...it's more than the sex, Lionel."

"Yes."

"Do you want to," she paused, a blush spreading pink across her face, "...try going public?"

Lionel gazed at her for a moment, watching the beams of sunlight turn her hair to spun gold. "You know, you're the best, most wonderful thing in my life."

"I'm not ready for...."

"That's all right."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not after your money. I'm going to be a very wealthy man in my own right," he said, eyes gleaming, "but I am falling in love with you."

"God, really?" Lillian asked, not bothering to hide her wonder.

He laughed and sent his fingers scrambling over her ribs until she squealed. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm crazy about you," he said, pressing a warm kiss to her mouth. "Or hadn't you noticed? I want this. I want whatever you're willing to give me."

"There's so much I want to show you."

"Me, too, love. Me, too."

She curled around him, kissing him lightly until they dozed off for an afternoon nap.

* * *

MANHATTAN. MAY, 1974

"Mrs. Luthor! Mrs. Luthor! Is it true your mother was opposed to your wedding?"

"Mrs. Luthor! You just buried your mother. Why are you moving away from New York?"

"Mr. Luthor! How does it feel to be perceived as a gold-digging rake?"

"Mrs. Luthor! Is it true that you went ahead with the wedding because you're with child?"

"Enough!" Lillian's family attorney finally intervened, halting the crowd of reporters and scandal-sheet writers as the couple hurried into the waiting limousine. "The late Mrs. Fisk wanted nothing more than to see her daughter happily married, and therefore forbade the postponement of their long-planned nuptials, even in the event of her untimely demise." He gave them a moment to let that sink in.

"The newlyweds will honeymoon on a yacht in the Aegean, then settle in Mr. Luthor's hometown of Metropolis, where, as I'm sure by now you've heard, LuthorCorp will open its new headquarters. Now, I'm sure you'll all join me in wishing the young couple the very best in their new life together. Good day."

* * *

METROPOLIS. OCTOBER, 1976

"Lionel?" Lillian called.

"Yes, dear?"

She entered his study with a stack of envelopes in hand, holding out a single postcard. "Here, this was in the mail for you."

Startled, he took it and read the back. "Um, thanks."

"Odd that there's no name, but it's a pretty photograph."

"It is, isn't it," Lionel murmured.

"What's L-19 stand for?"

"Nothing, Lily."

"It sounds like a seat number at the symphony," Lillian mused.

"I told you, it's not important. Now, would you mind? I have a presentation to get ready."

She scowled and coldly answered, "I'll be at the gallery if you need me."

* * *

Morgan dismissed security and smiled warmly, crossing the room to him. His hair was sun-streaked and he'd put on muscle. The glint in his eyes declared that he'd embraced power, and power had embraced him right back. Lionel found the hardness, the mass of him, startling. Beautiful, yes, but startling all the same. Next to him, Lionel felt small and spidery.

"You came," Morgan said, embracing him.

Lionel pulled free. "You can't do this."

Morgan serenely ignored every shred of Lionel's outrage. "I'm sorry about the hotel, but you understand the need for security. I missed you."

"Lillian knows about the postcards. I can't believe you'd send it to the house!"

"I needed to see you, and apparently the others weren't making it past your secretary."

Lionel glared at him. "Well, you've got my attention. What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No," Lionel lied, but he couldn't help staring into the deep blue of Morgan's eyes.

Morgan smiled sadly and brushed a thumb over Lionel's cheek.

Lionel pulled away from the touch, pushing down a wave of feeling. In a moment, he'd put half the sitting room between them. "I have a new life. It's been years now—you have to understand that."

Morgan didn't answer. He leaned against a marble column, simply watching, taking Lionel in.

Lionel fisted his hands in his pockets and made sure there was an appropriately defiant set to his jaw. Morgan shrugged, sucked on his teeth, and contrived to examine the carpet for a moment before bringing his gaze up sharply. Lionel recognized the Brando impression; it was still effective. "Babe, you need to understand that everything you have could be gone in the blink of an eye."

"What?"

"I've counted every day since you moved to New York, and every day since you returned."

"I can't...are you threatening me?" Lionel sputtered.

Morgan's eyes flashed with cold light. "I know you never told her about me. And not one of your high society friends has any idea what we were for all those years. Tell me, what do you think would happen to your stock rating if they found out? Do you think they would support a man who had lied to everyone about _everything_?"

"I would bury you. You know that," Lionel said matter-of-factly.

"And your fall would be worth it." Morgan smiled. "We'd be on level turf again."

Lionel shivered. This was his only living liability; he'd been an idiot to let sentiment stay his hand. "Christ, Morgan, what do you want from me?"

"You, Lionel. Just you."

"I can't."

"Of course you can. You can do anything you set your mind to. And I know you're already thinking of ways to counter me. Don't. You think I'd do this without fail-safes? I know you better than that. If anything happens to me, it all goes to a dozen different newspapers and TV stations around the country...along with the truth about your parents. Their life _and_ their death."

"You bastard." Lionel stumbled back and sat down, hard; the Queen Anne chair creaked under him. "You unbelievable bastard."

"You'll never stop being mine."

"You can't do this, Morgan," he growled.

"Don't be melodramatic, Lionel. You haven't even heard the deal yet."

"You can't."

"Twice a year is all I'm asking for. Two long weekends. We'll meet in London, Paris, the Riviera, wherever I feel like. Three nights every six months. I was thinking Memorial Day and Thanksgiving."

"No."

"Lionel. You have so far to fall."

Lionel focused on his breathing, running scenarios and hitting dead-end after dead-end. Morgan knew all his tricks. They'd learned most of them together, after all, but it just wasn't right to be using them against each other.

He felt a little like vomiting all over the polished antique furniture. Morgan stood patiently, hands in his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world. Because he did.

Right now Lionel had no leverage. He could neither attack nor retreat, and that left him with only one option.

He glanced up at Morgan and spoke quietly. "Not Thanksgiving. That's Lillian's."

"So give her Thursday and leave on Friday."

"No."

"Would you rather give me Christmas? If so, I'll take it, but I was trying to be kind."

"No. Morgan, this is ridiculous. We don't have to do this."

"Yes, we do. Because _you_ left. Because of the _way_ you left. Because of what you left behind. You never did learn to deal with consequences."

"I'm sorry, of all people, I thought I could trust you," Lionel said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Morgan held his gaze for a small eternity. "And I, you."

Lionel's mouth fell open. Morgan's eyes held the key to everything—love, rage, and endless, endless longing. He slumped further into the chair, whispered, "Fuck."

"That's the plan."

"What, raping me is supposed to make things better?"

"I love you, baby. I'll never stop loving you."

Lionel shivered. "No, I can't do this. I won't."

With a shrug, Morgan turned and ambled from one end of the suite to the other, letting him stew, forcing him to think, tempting him with the firm cut of his body under the tailored clothing, and Lionel couldn't help it if his dick responded of its own accord.

Morgan paced back toward him and spoke with deliberate languor. "Use your brain, love. The truth would destroy you, but it would _kill_ her. She has some kind of heart condition, doesn't she? I can't imagine that such a shock would be healthy. And the stress of a long-term tabloid feeding-frenzy...surely wouldn't be good."

"You son of a bitch."

"You're going to do this. I'll make the reservations and send you the details."

The silence stretched, long and brittle, for several minutes. Morgan remained perfectly relaxed.

Finally, Lionel shut his eyes, let out a breath, and nodded assent. "Just, please...."

"Hmm?"

"Send it to the office, not the house?"

Morgan smiled, ruffled his fingers through Lionel's hair, and left. Lionel followed with his eyes, but Morgan never looked back.

* * *

METROPOLIS. SEPTEMBER, 1979

Lillian awoke to orange beams of sunrise streaking across the ivory sheets. Lionel shifted behind her, spooning. She pressed back into his morning erection without even thinking about it. Then she felt his mouth on her neck and heard him purr behind her ear. She turned over and kissed his lips.

"Hi."

"Good morning," he said, sliding his hand down her body.

Their lovemaking was sweet and silent. Lillian's mind was full of the plans for the day, the artists she needed to badger, and the various minutiae of opening next month's new show. Staring up into Lionel's face, she saw he was in the same place—distracting thoughts clouding his features, banished with a blink or a twitch of his cheek. Their touch was rarely passionate anymore, but it was still nice, still familiar—comforting like a favorite sweater. Even if they were both busy with other projects, Lionel pouring his life into his current Forbes ranking, Lillian burying herself in things of beauty.

From her vanity, Lillian watched Lionel step out of the shower. She wondered how it was that at thirty-five, he was more beautiful than ever.

"Let's take a trip," she said, drawing a steady line over the lashes of her right eye.

"Where?" he asked, toweling himself dry.

"The beach? Can you spare a long weekend? I'd really love a change of scene."

"Can you, with the show?"

"This weekend, yes. After that, not really, but there's a reason why I have staff," she replied, smiling into the mirror.

"I'll see what I can do. Did you have any place particular in mind?"

"Mm, back east. I'm dying for the Atlantic. Maybe Martha's Vineyard? Or Bermuda? Somewhere quiet."

"You seem tired."

"I am. I want...I need to recharge." She looked over at him again; he was rubbing shaving cream over his face with one hand, and was trying to change the blade of his razor with the other. "And I want time alone with you."

He smiled at her from his mirror. "I'm sorry it's been so hectic."

"I know," she said, returning her attention to her makeup. "It just occurred to me that we weren't making much time for us. I miss it. I miss you."

"Lil?" he called from the sink.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

Rising from the antique bench, she went to him. "I know," she said, and kissed the tip of his nose. "Hurry up. You'll be late."

"The CEO is never late."

"The CEO takes too much pleasure in making other people wait."

"It's always nice to make an entrance."

She laughed, dropping her robe and disappearing into the bedroom-sized walk-in closet next door.

"And a dramatic exit," he murmured.

"I heard that," she called.

Lionel laughed warmly and scraped the rest of the stubble off his chin.

* * *

METROPOLIS. MARCH, 1980

"Pam, I have to go. He's home.... I'll call you later? I love you." Lillian placed the phone on the end table and settled back into her corner of the sofa.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Lionel said, voice a little sharp as he frowned.

"Sit down," she said, waiting for him to drop into the chair. "Please?"

"Are you okay?"

"There's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"The bad," he answered stoically, eyes filling with apprehension.

"All right, then." Lillian took a deep breath and leaned forward to take his hand. "At my doctor's appointment today, on top of the old arrhythmia, they diagnosed congestive heart failure. Apparently my heart valves simply don't work like they're supposed to. There's...no cure for it, but they've put me on medicine that I'll have to take for the rest of my life."

"...Failure?"

"Yes. It means, eventually, one day my heart will just stop."

"Oh my God," he whispered, sliding off the chair to kneel on the floor in front of her. He pulled her close against his chest and held her there.

She pushed him back and smiled. "Sweetheart, I'm going to be okay for a long time yet. I have to be."

"Oh, honey..." he said, fingers stroking her face. "There has to be something they can do. We'll...we'll get you the best care in the world."

She nodded. "I know. The doctor gave me reams of stuff to read, and we'll go over all of it together later, I promise." She kissed him lightly and let him hold onto her for several moments before asking quietly, "Do you want to hear the good news?"

He gave her a shaky laugh. "Please."

"You're sure? It's big news, too."

He nodded. "Yes, what is it?"

"You're going to be a dad."

"I'm wha—"

Lillian chuckled softly. "I knew I should have brought out the camera."

"I—"

"I love you," she said with warmth. "We're going to have a baby, and we're going to be all right. Okay?" She held him tightly. He was shaking, crying probably, Lord knew she had all the way home and through the first hour on the phone with Pamela.

She'd gone to the doctor that morning feeling under the weather. It never occurred to her that she could be pregnant. She'd been on the pill for ages, after all. On the other hand, it had never occurred to her that she might have anything worse than a mild arrhythmia, either.

Lionel rocked in her arms, hands in her hair. She could feel his tears on her neck as she made comforting noises, calming him. Maybe it wasn't fair to have hit him with everything all at once, especially on top of whatever was keeping him at work until all hours. But life wasn't fair, and she was determined not to be bitter. Besides, this was what it meant to be in it for the long haul—things got ugly sometimes.

"I'm sorry," he said, striving to regain control.

"It's okay, love. I've had a few hours to deal with the shock." She smoothed her fingers over his face. "I already cried myself out."

He nodded and kissed her again. "I love you so much. I don't know what I would do if I lost you."

"You won't," she said, knowing it was an empty promise. It didn't matter.

He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and asked, "What do we need to do?"

She smiled. As long as Lionel had an objective, he would be fine. "One, we read up on cardiology. Two, we build a nursery and read up on babies."

"Oh," he laughed as the delayed reaction set in. He laid his hand on her belly, even though there was nothing different to feel yet. "When?"

"Late October, probably. They'll know better in a few more weeks."

He grinned at her, a thousand thoughts flickering across his face, but no words issued forth. She smiled brightly and kissed him again. It was a rare thing indeed to leave Lionel speechless.

* * *

METROPOLIS. MAY, 1984

"So where is he this time?" Pamela asked. They were in the solarium, and the world seemed filled with clear blue sky, glossy green leaves, and bright blooming flowers.

"Club Med, maybe? I think he said the conference was in Mexico this year."

She sipped her iced tea and prodded, "How are things?"

"Distant." Lillian made a face. "You know what they say about children changing everything...."

"Mommy! Mommy!" As if by instinct, Alexander burst into the room, sprinting four steps ahead of his frazzled nanny.

Lillian laughed and waved away the woman's fervent apologies. "It's all right, we're just talking. He can stay in here for a while."

"Mommy, I made these for you!" he said, proudly brandishing two crayon-scrawled sheets of paper.

"Why thank you, Alexander! That's very thoughtful of you. Why don't you show Pamela?"

Alexander stood in front of Pamela, appraising her for a moment. "I know you," he said.

"That's right, I came to visit your mommy last month."

"Oh. I can use the potty all by myself now," he said happily. "And I know my ABCs. See?" he added, demonstrating.

Lillian raised her eyebrows at Pamela, and they both dissolved into laughter.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"You're amazing, darling. You're the best little boy in the whole world."

"Mmmm," he said, climbing into her arms to snuggle. "You're my mommy."

"Yes I am," she said, running her fingers through his fluffy red hair, "and I love you very much."

* * *

COZUMEL. MAY, 1984

"I've been watching you."

"Oh? So what else is new?" Lionel asked, stepping back in from the balcony, leaving the glass ajar. Ocean breeze rippled through the room, rustling his white pants, blowing his unbuttoned blue shirt off his shoulders.

"Storm's coming."

Lionel shrugged and poured scotch over ice. Morgan stepped behind him, pinning him gently against the counter, inhaling deeply. The sea air on Lionel's skin always did it for him, which was why he chose beach resorts for their weekends as often as possible. Lionel was sipping, neck tilted back to meet Morgan's tongue. Lionel knew him so well, knew everything he loved, everything he needed.

He wished there was a way to make it...real...again.

"I love you."

"That makes one of us."

"Please—"

Lionel turned around and kissed him roughly, eyes burning. "You've made me a whore. This is extortion, don't mistake it for anything more than that."

"God damn it, Lionel!" Morgan pushed off him, stalked around the bar to the tiny living room. "Why do you have to do this?"

"You tell me. You're the one threatening to kill my wife."

It was the same old argument, but it only grew more bitter every time they performed it.

"You're mine," Morgan growled. He paced, then returned to the kitchen. "You're mine. Ever since we were kids spying on the neighbors and fucking every chance we got. None of the others mattered. Nothing else is half as good as _us_."

"It's been twenty-five years. Why can't you just let me go?"

"Why can't you accept that when you promise someone forever, it means _forever_?"

"I—" Morgan stilled Lionel with a thumb on his lip.

"After all this time, I still can't stop. And I tried, baby, I did." He brushed another kiss over Lionel's mouth and let his fingers slide over his knotted shoulders and down. "This doesn't have to be bad."

"It's always bad. Every time we do this," Lionel said coldly, but he let Morgan push him around the corner to the bedroom.

Morgan stripped them quickly and pushed him back onto the bed. "I know you love me."

"That's not the point."

"Yes, it is," Morgan said, squeezing lube onto his fingers.

"No, the point now is how much I hate you."

Morgan kissed him deeply, shutting his eyes against something swelling inside his chest. "Yes."

"I'll never forgive you. Never," Lionel said fiercely as Morgan scissored him open.

"That's fine, love. You don't have to," Morgan answered, pushing Lionel's knees back and nudging his cock inside.

Plunging into him, Morgan watched Lionel's face, watched each grunt rise up from his core to spill from his mouth in a burst of whiskey-flavored breath. He watched the path of his eyes behind his tightly closed eyelids, watched his full-body jerk when he slid his thumb over the head of his leaking cock.

With each thrust, Morgan watched the progression of helpless rage and voracious hunger as he pulled the orgasm out of him, all over his hand.

Watched so that when Lionel opened his eyes, he saw him licking the come from his fingers. Watched Lionel's groaning reaction, hazel eyes full of lust and wonder. And yes, delight.

They each came crying the other's name.

They lay together in silence for a long time until Morgan traced a slow line down Lionel's chest and they both moved closer, limbs twining together.

"I hate you," Lionel whispered.

"Forever?"

He pressed his eyes shut and nodded. "For always."

* * *

METROPOLIS. MAY, 1984

"Hi."

Lillian jumped. "Oh my goodness." She clutched the open door of the wardrobe and pressed a hand to her face, embarrassed.

Pamela stood there in her nightshirt, a worried look on her face. "Sorry, I thought you heard me. I knocked on the outer door."

"It's okay. What's going on?"

"Just saying goodnight. Are you okay?" she asked, frowning at her.

Lillian smirked and shook her head. "Not really. Sit down?" she said, patting the edge of the bed. "There wasn't a chance to tell you earlier, before things turned into Romper Room."

"What is it?"

"It's getting worse."

"Oh, baby." Pamela pulled her into a long hug.

Lillian gestured toward the row of bottles on the nightstand. "More pills. I feel like something straight out of _Valley of the Dolls_."

"But this is medicine, honey."

"It makes me feel high. I hate it."

"I'm so sorry."

Lillian shrugged. "Listen, can I ask you something? I need you to do something for me. Something really big."

"Anything."

She frowned a warning at her. "Don't say yes until you've heard it."

Pamela smirked. "Okay, then. Shoot."

"I don't have any idea how to ask you this." Lillian bit her lip uncertainly and reached for Pamela's hand. "Listen, if it gets really bad—" She stopped and shook her head. "No, I mean _when_ it gets really bad, is there any way you could possibly come and stay? Please?" Lillian's eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, honey, of course I will."

"I feel so bad about asking," Lillian choked, words dissolving into sobs.

Pamela drew her close, holding her as the grief tumbled out. After a time, she said, "You know, I've been thinking for a long time about asking for a transfer to Metropolis."

"But—"

"No. None of that good old Catholic guilt of yours. I want to."

"But—"

"Hush."

Lillian swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."

"However I can help. I mean it."

"God, I'm so scared, Pam. I don't want to die, but more than that, I want so badly to see Alexander grow up."

"I know, baby. I know." Pamela rocked her back and forth, dabbing at her own eyes with a tissue. "I wish to God I could say something that would make it all better, but...honestly, it comes down to the same thing every time. All we can do is treasure every moment and pray."

They held each other for a long time, gentle fingertips wiping tears away and smoothing back stray locks of hair. Kisses pressed against cheeks, then against lips, first with comfort, then sudden heat. Pamela pulled away, blushing.

Lillian looked at her hands self-consciously. "That wasn't quite what I meant to happen."

Pamela stood up with a soft chuckle. "I think I'll go back to my room now."

"No—" Lillian said, and fought back another round of tears welling up from out of nowhere. "I mean, would you mind? I'd really rather you stayed."

"Lil."

"Please?"

Pamela stood at the foot of the bed, hand resting on the bedpost. Lillian stared into her eyes, watching her fight for composure. "Hon, we're both doing our best to cope here. I don't want things to get weird."

"I don't care if they're weird! I know it's selfish, and I'm sorry—I just really need not to be alone, and lately it feels like I'm always alone. Please?"

Pamela sighed in frustration. "Look, Lily, I love you, but don't ask me to be a substitute for Lionel. It's not fair."

"You're not," she said with a bitter laugh. "I'm miserable with him, that is, when he bothers to actually come home. He doesn't touch me anymore. He barely even looks at me, and when he does, it's like he doesn't even see me. All he sees is...the illness, I suppose."

"Rotten man doesn't deserve you."

"He doesn't, does he?" Lillian forced her face into a fragile grin. "I love you. I really do. And, honestly, I don't want things to get weird either, but...." she trailed off, cheeks flushing pink.

"What?"

"I'm really happy when you're here. It's like when we were back at school, except that now I know enough to appreciate it."

"Oh, love," Pamela murmured, gazing at her tenderly. Finally she took a deep breath and said, "Treasure every moment, right? No matter what?"

"Yes," Lillian gave her a soft smile and pulled her into her arms. "Thank you so much. More than I can ever tell you."

Pamela kissed her cheek and climbed up on the bed. "All right then, which side should I take?"

Lillian smiled and pointed. "Mine."

* * *

On the island, a storm raged through the night, cutting power and causing hotel staff to scurry through corridors delivering candles, matches, and bottled water. Morgan rose to collect the supplies before they were stolen, then returned to his post in the bedroom, where he lay watching the wind howl through the darkness, watching Lionel's tranquil sprawl as he slept defiantly through the gale.

In Metropolis, thunder rumbled and a soft rain began to fall. Pamela woke to the noise of Lillian mumbling in her sleep, and a confused moment passed before she remembered the request to stay. Lillian shifted, frowning at her dream. It sounded as if she were whispering, "Don't," over and over. Pamela ran a soothing hand over Lillian's shoulder until her face cleared, and she drifted back into peaceful sleep.

Pamela lay watching her and wondered again where Lionel was, and if he realized the seriousness of his wife's condition. It was one thing if he was honestly distracted. She could forgive him that. But it was something else entirely if he simply didn't care.

She resolved to find out the truth as soon as she could, and after that...everything in this house would change.

Pamela laid a protective kiss on Lillian's shoulder, and then turned on her side to watch the storm grow through the opening in the heavy drapes.

As her tears dried, rain cascaded down the glass, and water engulfed the breadth of her dreams.


End file.
